I.—TO OUR GREATEST CONTRIBUTOR.
JOHN LEECH, a hundred years ago,
When you were born and after,
There shone a sort of kindly glow
Of airy fun and laughter;
It was a sound that seemed to sing,
A universal humming
That made the echoing rafters ring
And so proclaimed your coming.
It was not noted at the time:
I was not there to note it,
But now I set it down in rhyme
That other men may quote it
And still maintain the thing is true,
Defying Wisdom's strictures,
And lose all doubt by looking through
A book of LEECH'S pictures.
You drew our English country-folk
As many others saw them—
The simple life, the simple joke,
But only you could draw them;
The warp and woof of country joys
In green and pleasant places;
The mischievous and merry boys,
The girls with shining faces.
The Squires, the Centaurs of the chase
And all the chase's patrons,
Each in his own, his ordered place;
The comfortable matrons—
These were your stuff, and these your skill
Consigned to future ages,
And caught and set them down at will
In Mr. Punch's pages.
Besides, you bound us to your praise
With many strong indentures
By limning Mr. Briggs, his ways
And countless misadventures.
For these and many a hundred more,
Far as our voice can reach, Sir,
We send it out from shore to shore,
And bless your name, JOHN LEECH, Sir.
R.C.L.